


Shahi Shadi

by Yass_Rani



Category: Indian politics
Genre: Multi, tw amit shah, tw modi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:02:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27984270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yass_Rani/pseuds/Yass_Rani
Summary: Congrats for getting through this crackfic I wrote high on Maggi Masala I'd like to declare, to avoid going to jail, that I do not intend to talk about people in real life and it is a work of fiction that should be taken as such.Now that I've completed the legalities, yes go off at me in the comments
Relationships: Amit Shah/Narendra Modi, Amit shah/Rahul Gandhi, Amit/Modi, Narendra Modi/Rahul Gandhi
Kudos: 7





	Shahi Shadi

It was a dark night, when he proposed it. They were in the central office, having stayed long after everyone was gone. Arnab’s voice blasted on the TV’s speakers – which were set to the lowest volume.

Papers littered the room, scattered across the tables and scrumpled up on the vast marble of Rashtrapati Bhavan. Ideas scrawled on some, others white except for a small ‘om’ on the top of the paper. The fan whirred at its own pace, ruffling the sheets on occasion.

“Chanakya. They call you Chanakya – and you haven’t come up with a single idea?” Narendra’s voice boomed across the huge office as Amit tapped his trademark Patanjali pencil on the desk.

The packets of maggi masala were finished by this time. Modi had already taken what was left of the last pack, leaving Amit with nothing but the sight of some of the powder on his thick moustache – not that he was complaining, it was rather a nice sight, in his opinion. Almost made him swipe his thumb over Narendra’s lips and clean it, but he refrained.

Amit did have an idea. Rather a wonderful one. He was sure it’d garner more than enough public interest but still cause enough problems to make it fun. The opposition would have fun with this one. They wouldn’t be able to do anything about it, after all, 377 was lifted and it was legal.

The only problem was convincing the Prime Minister.

“Well, Narendra, I do have an idea, but uh-”

“What is it?”

Amit took a deep breath. He quickly weighed the pros and cons. Personally, it was definitely a pro for him. Who wouldn’t like being married, even if it was fake (he hoped it wouldn’t be), to their long term crush?

“Will you marry me?”

Narendra’s eyes widened, and Amit collected every pro he had to shoot and justify his ‘idea’ or brush it off in panic.

“I- wait,” he said. Amit knew this face. It was the thoughtful prime minister face. He was thinking. He wouldn’t have Amit lynched. Hopefully.

On the other hand, Modi was shocked. Sure, he’d had dreams about this. It wasn’t the same situation, though, they’d be in a temple, on a plane to the US or even one time, in a classic bollywood dance setting – although that last part might have been because he snorted a full four packets of Maggi Masala.

Amit had proposed. It was a plan, a rather good one, practically speaking – but personally, Modi loved it.

He’d get to marry Amit Shah, the love of both his personal and his political lives, in splendor and grandeur, _in public_.

He nodded, and Amit mirrored his smile. They wouldn’t have to hide their feelings. Even if the other didn’t actually love them, they could freely express their love – it would be brushed off as a performance, but they could do it.

This would mean no more hidden glances.

No more pangs of jealousy when Narendra hugged Rahul.

No more nagging from the opposition, no more fights.

All the fake dating AUs Amit had heard of suddenly made sense now, but he vowed to himself that he wouldn’t think of this turning into something real. He wouldn’t dare fall into that hole, not this soon.

On that night, as the Rashtrapati Bhavan was empty, as the fan whirred a slow rasp and as Arnab threatened and barked at his targets for the night, amidst scattered paper sheets and rustling Maggi packets, Modi and Amit shook hands, their respective rings now glittering on each others hands.

\---

_Two months later_

After an intense period of promotions and intial damage control, the wedding was finally set in place.

Amit had planned on announcing the wedding after a rally of promotions and support for the LGBT community. That interview with Ayushmann Khurrana seemed to have worked very well, more so than being accused of hypocrisy by the opposition.

He knew there would be revolts – after all, him and his party, including the RSS lackeys were always anti-LGBT, but he pulled out the Hindu card again. He portrayed all the stories that had homosexual undertones and trans identities as positive and accurate. He made Modi speak about them in a healthy way, promoted starting sex ed in schools and normalising talking about it – of course, as long as it was after marriage and within their acceptable boundaries of religion and caste.

Then finally, when the country was warmed up enough, they announced the wedding.

Huge billboards and placards were placed, invitations sent out to India’s elite. The Ambanis offered to sponsor the invitations, lavish gold boxes and orange silk to everyone, the words “Shahi Shadi” in letters in every language imaginable inscirbed into the boxes. The billboards looked like Manyavar ads – the grooms standing back to back as gold letters spelt out the title in fancy fonts. Arnab advertised everything exclusively, handling and heading all debates to sway public opinion in their favour.

Finally, the wedding day came.

It was no less fanfare than they wanted. Security to the maximum, Arnab at the front gate, greeting their guests and Bollywood’s A-List turning in with their best outfits – of course, the theme was rainbow with the orange strip wider than the others.

The huge arch at the entrance was rainbow coloured, a wider orange strip running through it and spelling ‘Shahi Shadi’ at the top, in gold highlights.The food was entirely vegetarian, huge banquet tables laid out with the best curries and rotis, made by the best Brahmin cooks they could find. The desserts were a marvelous mix of sweets, vats of rasmalai and kesari halwa. There was no hitch in the preparations, except for the laddoos – Modi wanted besan ones, while Amit preferred motichoor.

Just as the pandit asked the grooms to sit down, Narendra folded his hands and turned to his mother. It was his wedding after all, and he needed blessings – only to close his eyes in indignance when his mother held up her palm. A shudder ran through him at the thought of those idiots from Congress.

Amit made himself comfortable, his bejeweled orange kurta glittering from the flames of the holy fire. Just as Narendra turned to him and smiled, about to sit down, there was an uproar from the entrance.

White hat askew and usually perfectly combed hair sticking up, Kejriwal rushed in, security guards and Arnab in close pursuit.

“ _Yeh shaadi nahi ho sakti!”_ He yelled, desperately fighting to get away from the guards as his face lit up at the new entry.

“ _Mere hote hue? yeh shaadi kabhi nahi hogi!”_ Mamta’s voice screeched through the hall.

Both interruptors were being overpowered by the guards while their own bodyguards tried to fight them off, all the while, Arnab went off in the background, as loud as he could, cursing and yelling at the protesters to shut up.

Amidst all this commotion Narendra stood, shocked at the sight before him. It wasn’t Kejriwal, or Mamta. Of all days this had to happen, he thinks, it was probably his bad luck that brought Rahul before him, today.

The young man walked in, none other than Sonia right behind him, looking terribly conflicted about the whole issue. The poor woman was torn between following behind her son and protesting against the wedding with the other people already there.

“Modiji. Don’t do this, please,” Rahul pleaded, eyes welling up with tears, “Please, Narendra, I know we’ve been enemies. We’ve hated each other for so long, we’ve been at each others necks but, oh, Modiji, I realised I’m in love with you.”

Despite the odds, Narendra felt his own eyes tearing up at Rahul’s words.

“That day, when- when you hugged me in the meeting, Narendra, that was when I realised. I’ve always had this feeling when it comes to you, but that was the day I realised I fell in love with you. I know the odds are against us, but please, listen to me-,” he pleaded, only to be interrupted by a half sob gasp from Narendra.

“Me too,” he whispered.

His eyes held the world’s truth in them, and he barely heard Amit’s betrayed, shaken gasp behind him as Rahul ran up to the altar and threw his arms around him.

It was true, he realised it too. There was a spark between him and Rahul that day, the same one he felt when he held him right now.

Amit stood up, eyes clouded at the display of love in front of him. He saw the love in both Rahul’s confession and Narendra’s acceptance – and he had a declaration too.

"Rahul. I love you,” he blurted.

The already shocked audience gasped harder and Karan rose with his phone to get as much footage as he could. The embracing couple parted, identical shock painting both their faces.

“K-kya?” they questioned in unison.

Amit gathered all his courage. If he was going to do this, he’d go all out.

“Narendra. Rahul. I’ve hidden this from you, but it’s true. I love you, truly. I didn’t suggest this wedding as a strategy – sure, it helped, but I suggested it in the hope that you love me just as much as I love you. And, Rahul, you heard me. It’s not only Narendra that I love. Everytime I saw you, I fell in love just a bit more – and I don’t regret it.”

Narendra and Rahul stared at Amit as he continued, open mouthed and unable to express anything but soft huffs of joy.

"That day, when you hugged Narendra, I felt a pang of jealousy. I thought it was because I love Narendra and I hated seeing you hug him – but no. That’s not it. I was jealous, yes, jealous that Narendra might have feelings for you, but also that you’d have feelings for him. I was jealous, yes, but because I wanted both of you. I should’ve realised earlier.”

Ayushmann, Tahira and Jitendra had tears in their eyes. Amidst the crowd, they sobbed as the lovers declared their feelings.

Arnab was still trying to get Kejri and Mamta to calm down.

That was the moment of realization.

The three men looked at each other, and saw a flash in their eyes.

They could go away. They could run away, leave the place. Sure, they had a country to look after, responsibilities – but what use was the power if they couldn’t love whoever they wanted, or marry them?

Narendra signalled to Arnab, who called a car to the door. He knew what was happening.

As much as he hated Rahul, he had to let them go, after all, Narendra and Amit loved him – he had to do it.

He loved his masters, he truly did, but he had to let them go. He vowed to stay, he would stay here, do everything he could to save them and make sure they were happy. All he wanted was for Narendra to be happy.

As they got to the car, the older men rushed in, smiles on their faces – Rahul hesitated. On one side were the men he loved with all his life, behind him was his whole life. His dreams, his family, his party, his _mother._

As much as he loved Narendra and Amit, he wasn’t sure if he could leave his mother. He watched as she looked at him, eyes teary.

She was conflicted, but she knew her son needed this.

“Son, I’m sorry, I don’t know if I will ever understand this, but don’t let me stop you from living your life how you want. I’ve held you to politics too long,” she smiled and caressed his cheek, “ _jaa, Rahul, jee le apni zindagi._ ”

After their final goodbyes, as the three men got into the car, Narendra looked out of the window and shed a tear as he left his faithful, loyal assistant behind.

They fled the city, opting to take shelter at a remote place until they can move away.

Tears in their eyes, Amit, Narendra and Rahul walk into a hotel, hands held and gazing into each other. They booked a room and stood in the elevator, waiting for it to get to their floor.

The volume in the elevator was astronomical.

The sexual tension was monumental.

The hotel was Trivago.

**Author's Note:**

> Congrats for getting through this crackfic I wrote high on Maggi Masala I'd like to declare, to avoid going to jail, that I do not intend to talk about people in real life and it is a work of fiction that should be taken as such.
> 
> Now that I've completed the legalities, yes go off at me in the comments


End file.
